My hair is boring. It blends in and is unseen. It’s the Janet of Three’s Company, the Jan of The Brady Bunch, the Jennifer of Family Ties. Until I was twelve-years-old I had really long, all-the-way-down-to-my-butt hair. Then I cut it to the shoulder length, parted on the side, and developed the mushroom shaped hairstyle that I sport to this day.
That’s it. No crazy colors, no perms, no gang signs shaved onto the side of my head, nothing.
The one time I did want to try something different, I was talked out of it by my hair stylist. I was in my early teens, and decided I was going to cut my hair super short. I brought a picture of a model with short hair into my hair appointment, and showed it to my stylist. She looked at it and said, “Wow…huh.”
This was not encouraging.
She then told me as delicately as she could, which was not very delicately, that I “didn’t have the bone structure” for short hair, and that she was afraid it would look “too masculine” on me. She seemed to think that using lots of big words would distract me from the fact that she was telling me that if I had short hair I would look like a dude.
So there went my one attempt at short hair. It was also the first time I learned that I could look kinda dude-ish. It was just like the day a few years ago when a homeless man walked up to me and told me I had pock marks on my face. Sometimes all it takes is a caring stranger to make you feel insecure about yourself forever.
My hair became something I decided not to think about as little as possible. I got my mushroom cut and never looked back. I would blow it out, curl the ends under for maximum mushroomy fullness, and go off to school or work. Now that I am a stay-at-home mom, however, I NEVER have to think about my hair: I am all ponytail, all the time. I am the queen of Moms Who Give Not A Shit.
It is a slippery slope though — the other day I was about to go to the store to get hot dog buns when my husband stopped me and said,
“Really? Pajama pants AND no bra?”
“What?” I said. “I’m gonna have my coat zipped up the whole time.”
We looked at each other for a minute, and then I got changed.
I might not get dressed up, but at the very least I WILL put on actual clothing. Because I have standards, dammit.
And maybe I can dress up my hair without any doing work by putting on fake hair. Christie Brinkley has a new venture (you might have heard about it, she was all over the place recently talking about how she is 60 and could pass for your sister you middle-aged sack of shit), called Hair To Wear. It’s a line of wigs, extensions, and “hair accessories”, which appear to be headbands made out of hair. I’m not sure why your average woman would want to do this, and why anyone would think they could get away without people asking questions.
Is it a wig? Do you have cancer? Only you will know!
I think I’ll stick with my ponytail fungi.